


Don't Say You Will

by Moonknife



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: F/M, living in hell's kitchen is the worst, the only solution is boning apparently, the threat of being killed is omnipresent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-19
Updated: 2016-03-19
Packaged: 2018-05-27 18:46:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6295600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moonknife/pseuds/Moonknife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Karen Page is tired of having her heart broken and her life endangered. But against all reason, she trusts Frank Castle. She isn't afraid to come by his place late at night, and when things take an unexpected turn, she's resolved to be brave and face that too.</p><p>Or, I needed an excuse to get Karen and Frank in bed together. And believe me, it's a flimsy excuse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Say You Will

I’ve come here to ask Frank Castle for a favor. I didn’t tell Foggy that I was coming here, to this husk of an apartment building at the edge of Alphabet City where Frank lives in a nearly empty apartment on the fifth floor. I also didn’t tell him that Frank is my “secret source” for information about crime in Hell’s Kitchen. And I didn’t tell Matt Murdock anything at all.

I never pined for a man in my life until I met Matt Murdock. I had crushes, sure. And maybe I spent the better part of a semester’s worth of AP English classes in high school scribbling football captain Troy St. Amant’s name in my notebook. But I knew Troy would never give me the time of day, so I was never invested. But Matt…Matt had kissed me. He had touched me and told me that he didn’t want to ruin what we had. Because what he had, he said, was perfect.

And for a little while, I believed him. When he kissed me, it was as dizzying as dark wine in my blood: longing and hope and the suddenly overwhelming desire to touch and be touched. God, to be close to someone without fear. I didn’t realize how bad I wanted that until I thought Matt might want to come home with me sometime. Stay in bed with me and drink coffee with me and talk to me about something other than murder and mayhem and why New York opens a new wound every time you think you’ve stopped the bleeding.

But then the feeling began to fade. Matt didn’t take me on a second date. He stopped kissing my lips, and then he stopped kissing my cheek. And even though at first I thought Matt was making me feel special, I realized he was making me feel small. It wasn’t his fault, not really. He lived in a world halfway between Hell’s Kitchen and some shadow life he would never share with people who he talked to during the day. Matt only wanted to be with me because he wanted to be a different version of himself, and I fit that version of him. The perfect accessory for totally normal lawyer Matt Murdock: Dating the paralegal? Oh Matt! And we all laugh.

But it took me longer to notice Matt’s distance than I should have because of Frank. When I met Frank, when I looked into his eyes, I saw someone who had suffered more than I had. Someone who was still suffering, every day, and I couldn’t just walk away from him. And even before we were face to face (and when I looked at his bruises and black eyes I could still hear the whispers of the nurses leaving his hospital room, _did you see him?_ _That’s The Punisher!_ ) I felt like I knew him because I had been in his house. That house had been like a museum of his life, full of discarded toys and war medals and pictures of a beautiful family. His wife had looked a little bit like me. We were both blondes, anyway. So when I finally spoke to Frank Castle, The Punisher, I was not afraid.

And I am not afraid now. 

I knock on his door. No sound from the other side.

“It’s me,” I say, keeping my voice low. I almost say, “it’s Karen,” but something tells me Frank doesn’t have many visitors these days. He knows who I am.

The door opens a crack. A sliver of Frank’s face, still bearing the faint smudges of bruises along his cheekbones and jaw, appears between the door and the jamb.

“Hey there,” he rasps. “What the fuck are you doing here, Karen?”

“What a nice welcome,” I respond, not stung by his words. Knowing Frank, he’s probably just unhappy that I’m out after dark. He doesn’t like to think of me in danger. Even though I’m always in danger. Leftover protective instinct from his wife and kids, I suppose. “Can I come in for a minute?”

He glares at me and then opens the door wide. I duck in under his arm and try not to roll my eyes at the state of his apartment. It’s not dirty as in unsanitary, but it’s a mess. There are guns everywhere. And belts and boxes of bullets shoved under the guns. Empty coffee cups are perched on every flat surface. “You know,” I say, putting my bag on a folding chair stacked with newspapers (it looks like they’re all copies of the New York Bulletin, the paper I work for), “you should hire a maid. An ex-military maid who can put these guns away in an orderly fashion.”

Frank snorts. He’s standing in the open kitchen, brewing another pot of coffee. How does he shoot straight after drinking so much caffeine? And really, how does he have all of these guns when he doesn’t even have a job? I only have the one handgun, and I didn’t exactly buy it myself, but I’m guessing that guns aren’t cheap.

On second thought, I don’t want to know where Frank gets all of his guns. Or any of the rest of this insane arsenal, for that matter. Maintaining my friendship with him requires a certain level of willful ignorance. Although it occurs to me that if I asked Frank where he got any of this stuff, he would tell me.

Matt would jump off a roof if I asked him where he bought his couch. 

“So, what brings you to my side of town?” Frank sips from a paper cup and looks at me. He has nice eyes. Those eyes are the only part of him I’ve seen not covered in blood. Blood of the people he’s killed. Okay, time to stop thinking about that. “Let me guess: you’ve started ballroom dance lessons and you need a partner?”

I can feel my mouth drop open like a goldfish. “Did you just make a _joke_? Hold on, I think someone must have drugged me on the way over here. This isn’t a nice neighborhood, you know.”

“Ha, ha.” Frank gives me a crooked half-smile and I feel something warm in my chest, like a shot of whiskey. “Come on, Karen. Don’t keep me in suspense. What’s up?” 

“Right.” I open my bag and pull out a manila folder. “Have you ever heard of Wesley McMaster? Marine, enlisted, served in your company in Afghanistan from 2002 to 2003?” I open the folder and pull out a photo of a young marine in uniform, holding it up so Frank can see it. “He’s a local too. From Staten Island. Lived in Hell’s Kitchen after he got back from his last tour.”

Frank gives the picture a long look, then shrugs. “I remember him a little from the Corps. He got real drunk one night in Kabul and we found him the next morning in a sewage ditch. At least, I think it was him. That was a long time ago.”

“Ugh.” I put the picture back in the folder. “Nice story.” I look around for someplace to sit down, but aside from the chair/newspaper rack there’s only the futon/rifle holder. It looks like there might be a sword on that futon too. I stay standing.

“He may have fallen in with a street gang. Real small time stuff.” I hold up a hand when Frank takes a step towards me. “It’s not a job for The Punisher. More like a job for a rookie cop who’s been on the force, like, six months. But his mom keeps calling me and asking me to write a story about him. You know, like a human-interest piece? And when I tried to find him, I came up with nothing but dead ends.” 

“So you thought maybe he and I were hanging out at the crazy ex-Marine bar?” Frank shakes his head and takes another swallow of coffee. “Not great detecting skills, Karen. I don’t exactly have a social life. And if this guy’s in a gang, the only way we would have met recently is if I killed him.”

I try not to flinch, especially because it’s true. “Look, I knew it was a long shot. I just thought it might be a good story. You know, soldier comes home, can’t find a place in the civilian world, turns to crime.” I trail off. “I guess you know this story.”

Frank chuckles. He walks out to the other side of the kitchen bar and leans against it, crossing his legs at the ankles. As usual, he’s dressed all in black. He looks scary. Well, he would look scary to someone else, I suppose. To me, he looks tired.

“Sort of.” He still has that sardonic grin. I like it. “If you replace ‘turns to crime’ with ‘ridding the world of criminals’. Come on, Karen. This story sounds like bullshit. Why are you really here?”

I swallow, hard. I did think I was coming here to ask Frank about McMaster. But he’s right; the story is bullshit and the chances of Frank actually knowing this guy were basically nil from the get-go. So why am I here?

“I…” Didn’t want to be alone. Am tired of staring at the walls in my apartment. Can’t stop wondering why Matt doesn’t call me. Why Matt doesn’t want me. If Daredevil is going to die tonight.

I go with the first one. “I just didn’t want to be by myself.” I try to make it sound less pathetic with a forced laugh. “I got rid of cable. Biggest mistake of my life.” 

And then I start to cry. Not gently, not quiet tears. No, a sob rips out of my chest and I can barely breathe and I’m doubling over when Frank’s arms come around me. I think it’s been weeks since someone touched me and that makes me cry even harder. What is happening? I thought I was handling everything okay. But Frank’s embrace is warm and I wrap my arms around his chest. I’m a tall woman but the fingers of my two hands don’t touch at his back. “You work out too much,” I mumble between gasps.

“Don’t cry, Karen,” he soothes. This must have what he sounded like when he was putting Band-Aids on his daughter’s skinned knees or comforting his son for not making the little league team. “It’s okay. You’re okay. You’re so tough. My tough girl.”

That hurt like a bullet in my heart. “I’m not tough,” I say. Or maybe I shriek it. It feels like something is trying to crawl out of the middle of me. I thought I was stronger than this. Thank god it’s happening in front of Frank and not Matt. I couldn’t bear for Matt to see me so weak. “I don’t know if I can do this anymore.” Live in Hell’s Kitchen. Keep everyone’s secrets. Have nothing for myself. 

Frank is holding me up, stroking my hair, and it feels good. It feels so good I don’t want him to let go, and my hands fist in the soft cotton of his shirt.

“I’m sorry,” I tell him. “I’m not a strong as you.”

He tilts my head up with his calloused fingers so we are looking into each other’s eyes. My vision is frayed with tears, but I can see him perfectly. He looks furious, his mouth an angry line, but his eyes (those eyes) are gentle. “Never say that,” he says, his voice strained. “You are the strongest person I know. Stronger than me, that’s for fucking sure.”

That’s so ridiculous that I laugh, and then he kisses me.

I can’t say that I’ve never imagined what it would be like to kiss Frank. Hell, I’ve imagined what it would be like to kiss the kind of cute guy who lives down the hall from me. I’ve been so lonely and so furious with Matt that I’ve been trying on purpose to replace him in all of my fantasies, and these days it usually has been Frank’s face and hands and mouth in my mind.

But now it’s Frank’s mouth in real life, and for just a moment I think _I can’t do this_ and then I’m kissing him back. At first his lips are too hard, too angry against mine, but a sound like a sigh comes out of my throat and then he relaxes against me. I can feel the change move through his whole body, like a switch flipped from “furious” to “calm,” and then his hands move from the back of my head down the arch of my spine. I lean into the kiss and it gets hotter, his mouth slanting, and then his tongue touches mine and that is _it_. Now it’s like I’m the one with the switch, and apparently my new setting involves trying to climb him. I hook one ankle around Frank’s calf and press my hips against his.

His reaction is immediate. His hands pull my hips even more tightly against his and I can feel that he’s hard as a rock. Fire races along my skin, my cheeks are burning, I feel like a different person. A better person. Maybe not strong like Daredevil or The Punisher, but I know at least this one thing: how to make Frank Castle tremble.

And then he pulls away from our kiss and shakes his head a little. “We shouldn’t do this. I…I’m sorry, Karen. I don’t know what got into me.” He tries to take a step back and stumbles a little. I’ve never seen him stumble before.

This is the moment to walk away from what is completely guaranteed to be a huge mistake. Frank is doing me a favor. Funny how it makes me want to strangle him with my bare hands.

“Do you want me to leave?” I’m surprised to hear how steady my voice is. I feel like I’m going to scream or tear this place apart or _something_. “Are you saying you don’t want me?”

“Uh…” Frank rakes a hand over his short hair. His lips are swollen. I want to kiss him again. “I, uh…I think that it would be best if you left, yeah.” He doesn’t meet my eyes. “You don’t need this shit, Karen. Just go home.”

Bitterness is so familiar that it feels like an old sweater. “Right. Yeah, of course. Go home, Karen. Stay out of it, Karen.” I cross my arms and glare at him. “Funny how everyone thinks not knowing something means it doesn’t exist. Like if I don’t know the bad guy’s name, he can’t get me.”

“What?” I imagine Frank would have the same look on his face if I started speaking Swahili. “What are you talking about?”

“Shut up, Frank!” My hands ball into fists and I close the distance between us, not caring that I’m getting into The Punisher’s personal space. “You don’t get to decide for me! No one gets to decide for me! I’m living in the same shitty world as you, with the same crazy fucking guys trying to kill me! You aren’t helping when you tell me to go home, don’t you get that?” God, now the tears are coming again, and I don’t even know if I have the words to say what I want to say but I keep going. “Everyone wants to keep me in the dark, but you can’t protect me that way. The bad guys know who I am, Frank. I have to protect myself.”

Frank reaches up a hand and I notice it’s shaking. Too much coffee, maybe. He touches my cheek. “Karen…”

“Why can’t I decide I want something?” I ask him. I feel hollow and I want the fire his touch gave me to come back. “If you want me too, why can’t we have this? Just one thing, just for us?”

Frank’s hand is still on my cheek. He doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t move away. So this time, I lean in to kiss him. Before our lips can touch, he leans his head back, just a little.

“Karen,” he says. “I want you so bad I would kill someone with my bare hands if you asked me to. And that’s what I am. I kill people with my bare hands. If someone looked at you funny, I would fucking rip their head clean off. Are you sure you want to have anything with me? Because if you stay here tonight, I won’t give it up. You won’t be able to take it back. Even if you deserve better, I don’t care. I’m not some good guy who’ll do the right thing. I’m not Matt Murdock.”

I have the feeling he says Matt’s name to try to snap me out of it. He told me once that he knew I loved Matt, and that he wished he could feel love again. But I don’t have the time or the inclination to explain now that I never really knew Matt. That Matt never does anything but lie to me, while Frank never does anything but tell me the truth.

“You are a good guy,” I say, and then I grab his shirt and yank him to me. Frank isn’t fighting me anymore. He nearly crushes me in his embrace and I wind my arms around his neck and we kiss, we kiss, we kiss. We kiss like our lives depend on getting it right, and oh god it makes me dizzy and my knees start to give but Frank won’t let me fall. He bends at the waist and puts his hands under my ass, and when he stands I hook my ankles at the small of his back.

“Do not drop me on any grenades,” I say against his mouth and he laughs. It sounds rusty. When was the last time he laughed at anything? He walks through the living room and carries me into his dark bedroom. I’ve never been in here before, I’ve never had a reason to. With the lights off there is a cool stillness in here and I like it. The sounds of New York come in through the only window, and his bed is just a mattress on the floor because of course it is.

He lowers me onto the mattress and this is really happening. He’s a shadow above me, still kissing me but his hands are now free to pull my blouse from the waistband of my skirt. “I like how you dress,” he growls, “so professional.” He doesn’t unbutton my blouse, he rips it open, sending buttons clattering to the floor.

“You can buy me a new professional shirt,” I murmur, but I’m too busy trying to get his t-shirt off to be angry. For a moment this seems impossible: he’s trying to get my shirt off and I’m trying to get his shirt off and these two things can’t happen simultaneously, but then he raises his arms and I pull his shirt over his head, and brings his arms down and yanks my shirt off, tossing it over his shoulder. He slips his hands around my ribs and unhooks my bra, sending it to join my shirt somewhere on the floor. I’m suddenly nervous and I press my hands on his bare chest, maybe to push him away, but then his lips close around one of my nipples and my mind goes blank. Jesus Christ, it feels so good. Waves of sweet and sharp pleasure spiral from where his mouth meets my skin and radiate to the crown of my head and through my limbs. Any plans of playing it cool are gone and I’m writhing under him, trying to ease a sudden urge to get closer, closer, and Frank hisses.

“Fuck,” he groans against my breast. “Goddamit, goddamit, Karen…” He turns his attentions to the other nipple and suddenly I need his pants off now. I fumble with the button at his waist and he sits up suddenly, making me gasp.

“Take it off,” I beg. “All of it.”

He doesn’t say anything but pulls off his boots and strips off his pants and boxers so fast I wonder if that’s part of military training. The he pulls at the zipper on the side of my skirt. “Faster,” I tell him, but he shakes his head. I can see him more clearly now that my eyes have adjusted to the dim, and he smiles at me.

“Do not ask me to go faster,” he breathes. He sounds breathless and I like that. “This is something I’ve dreamed of. I’m going to make it last.”

I smile back at him. “You’ve dreamed of taking off my skirt?”

“Yeah,” he says. The zipper is fully undone and he pulls the skirt down inch by inch. “I’ve thought about taking your clothes off plenty of times. Too many times.” Now all that’s left between us is my second favorite pair of underwear. “I used to think about taking your clothes off in my jail cell. And in the hospital. And on top of buildings. Walking down the street. Hailing a cab.” He hooks his fingers in the elastic of my panties and pulls them down. Now I’m naked and so pale in the moonlight. I never could get a tan. I don’t think Frank minds. He’s breathing so hard it sounds like he just ran a marathon. “I think about you naked in the morning sometimes. And in the afternoons. Right before I go to sleep. In the middle of the night.” 

I try to laugh but I’m beginning to have trouble breathing myself. “That’s a lot of picturing me naked. Do you have time to think of anything else?”

He swallows. “Just one other thing.” Remorse comes at me like an arrow shot but then he leans down and kisses me, his tongue slipping into my mouth and making me forget all my apologies. What would I have said? I’m sorry your life was ruined? But then his hand slips down my chest, down my belly, between my legs and I forget to be sorry.

“Frank,” I whisper as his finger slips inside me.

“Karen,” he says, his eyes shut. He looks like he’s concentrating very hard, and I appreciate that because this is wrecking me. It’s been so long, but it feels so good and I press against his hand, urging him deeper. He growls. “Karen, Karen, fuck, fuck…” He touches my clit and I buck underneath him.

“I like that,” I tell him. “Keep doing that.” He complies, and within minutes stars are exploding behind my eyes. My orgasm comes over me hard and fast, like waves of heavy water, drowning me and holding me up at the same time. I think I say Frank’s name, and he lets me quake against him. I’m not afraid of Frank, not ever. I don’t care if he sees me undone and out of control. I don’t care. I don’t care.

When I feel him hesitate I touch his jaw. He needs to shave. “I’m on the pill, it’s okay.” Not so romantic, but he turns his head and presses a hot kiss into the palm of my hand, sending a fresh jolt of desire through me. When he slides inside me I can’t help but cry out. Yes, I want to say, yes Frank, stay here. But I can’t speak and so I just hold on to him as he moves against me. The sound of our mingled breath is the sound of a secret hidden away from the horrors of Hell’s Kitchen.

“Karen, I can’t, I can’t,” he says. “Oh god, I can’t, I can’t…you…Karen.” He braces on his forearms and I can see the sheen of sweat on his forehead. I know he is completely here with me, lost in this moment. It’s a kind of peace for him, I think, and I wrap my legs around his waist. I press my lips to his neck and taste salt on his skin. He moves faster, sliding in and out of me and I feel pleasure working into a tight spiral low in my belly. I tilt my hips up to press my clit against him and come again, more gently this time. I say his name (how many times have I said his name tonight?) and he falls apart, his hips quickening and then stilling against mine. He lets his head fall in the space between my shoulder and neck and I hold him there as his body shakes with his release, and then shakes with that feeling that comes after.

Belonging. Acceptance. Contentment. Not things he usually feels. Or things that I usually feel. But we feel them now.

“I meant what I said,” he says into my hair, his hand stroking my breast, my ribs, the curve of my waist.

“What’s that?” I don’t want him to move just yet. The weight of him will be too much for me in a few moments, but for now I think I would do anything to keep him where he is. 

He raises his head and our eyes lock. He looks absolutely _destroyed_ and I wonder if I look the same to him. “You can’t take it back. This was a really bad fucking idea, but it’s done and it can’t be undone. You have to come back to me. Or I’ll come to you. But this isn’t over after tonight.”

I can see him standing in my little apartment with its cheap curtains and fresh flowers in second hand vases, wearing his long jacket and his armored vest with the white skull painted on the front. As strange as the image is, I want it.

I press my lips to his chin. There’s a small scar on it, a faint line that vanishes under his lower lip. “I’ve told you before, Frank,” I say. “You don’t scare me.”

Outside, voices are raised and tires screech. Frank closes his eyes and rests next to me. Hell’s Kitchen will stay on the other side of the window, at least for tonight.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading until the end, and boy can you tell I haven't written a sex scene in a while. Future endeavors will hopefully be...well, hotter. But I tried. Anyway, if you're interested, this story was written to James Blake's Retrograde, a song I think fits Karen and Frank perfectly (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6p6PcFFUm5I). Visit me on Tumblr, if it tickles your fancy: http://amaltheaisalseep.tumblr.com/.


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